David Usborne: Me And My Green Card
'Somewhat unsettlingly, I'm designated as a resident alien'
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.Since the terror attacks of September 2001, the obstacles have become ever more daunting, even for tourists who find themselves finger-printed and photographed at customs even if they only plan to spend a weekend in Vegas.
Winning a visa to study or work here for any prolonged amount of time has become a task that is nerve-wracking and can cost thousands in legal fees. Very fortunately, my travels in the Byzantine world of American visa-dom came before 9/11. For several years I had remained here on a so-called Information Visa reserved for reporters for foreign publications. I renewed it once. Then, in 2000, I went for broke. I applied for the hallowed Green Card.
The process - I was applying for myself, my former wife, and my son all at once - was painful enough even back then. My Los Angeles-based lawyer, who eventually billed me $4,000, some of it going to the government, advised that my only option was to apply as a person of (don't laugh) "exceptional abilities".
This was a 15-month exercise in self-aggrandisement. Begging letters were written to acquaintances in high positions - including former Times editor Harry Evans - asking them for gushing testimonials as to my character and professional achievements. On my lawyer's urging, I even submitted dog-eared Christmas cards received from former President Bill Clinton and recordings of appearances I had made on television chat shows.
Finally, after months of anxious anticipation, word came from an immigration office that they had bought my story. I was indeed an exceptional person. But I had a little more work to do. Fingerprints had to be given and I was obliged to travel with the family to London for an "interview" at the US Embassy. It turned out to be a perfunctory business, but we were dispatched the same morning to some gloomy doctor's office for a comprehensive check to ensure we wouldn't be importing tuberculosis or any other drastic disease to the land of the free (and healthy).
About four weeks before 9/11, the Green Cards arrived. Hallelujah. The size of a credit card with our photos and our most intimate details encoded in an electronic strip, it isn't green at all, but never mind. I now guard it with my life. Lose it and I will be forced to apply all over again. The advantages are many, not least that on arriving at JFK from England I am now allowed at passport control to skip the long queues of restive tourists and masquerade as a US citizen. But I am not quite that. In fact, somewhat unsettlingly, my official designation in this country is as a "resident alien". I can stay for as long as I desire. I must pay all US taxes (though, infuriatingly, I still cannot vote) and if I leave the country and live elsewhere for any length of time I must continue to pay them. Unless I give the card up. Which is not something, after so much sweat and humiliation, I would easily be persuaded to do.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments